


Fourth Beginning

by beekeepercain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/beekeepercain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt:</b> Love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourth Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> If I don't come up with something original and refreshing for next week's [network](gadreelnet.tumblr.com) prompt, I can just stop writing altogether.
> 
> Subjects banned from now on: everything that can be tagged with post-episode 9x23, and literally everything that happened before then just the same unless I decide to drastically alter a plotline for the sake of it.  
> Next up probably: high school AUs, because I really can't imagine what I didn't just ban.
> 
> Anyway, I'm probably lying, and next week's prompt will be equally half-meta half-fiction as the ones to date.

 

* * *

 

It is said that everything has a beginning and an end, but it isn't entirely true. Many things and many beings have multiple beginnings and ends each as important as the other, and Gadreel, to date, had ended thrice and began four times in full. On this fourth time he opened his eyes to a dull world of grey, first thinking his vision was gone but soon realising that the lack of colour which he could perceive with his other eye was inequal with the darker, dimmer surface on the other side, and therefore there had to exist.  
This beginning started with a soft light lingering in those shades, in a stone grave that now served as a womb - an irony in itself as it was here that he'd suffered for those countless years and it was here that he last wanted to be reborn - and with a distinct ringing sound inside Gadreel's grace as it tried to connect with other angels. Finally, he shifted.

The first lesson in his new life was that shifting was a bad idea. It was the worst decision he'd made since the previous life, the one he'd ended with faltering confidence hours earlier, and it left him with a flood of incapacitating pain that drove air out of the vessel he seemed oddly tied to, like his figurative skin had melted into the figurative cloth that he wore. The non-figurative skin on him had merged with the stone underneath him via a layer of dried blood, and there was quite a lot of it. As he struggled to continue the movement, the ceasing of which would now be futile as the pain would hardly stop after he'd started sensing it no matter how still he would be, he could feel the cuts opening again to release a fresh trickle of mortal essence upon the realm of immortals as the scabs tore from them. He'd started healing already, even if healing from something like this would be a painful, lengthy process. He knew this when he sat up, trembling and weak, but at the same time he realised he stood a realistic chance at crossing the cell: how much further from there he would get remained a mystery to him, but it would take more than a blown-up grace to keep him in this realm of torture for a moment longer if he only could help it.

A sense of disappointment followed him as he slowly and stiffly made his way up from the seat and over the first pile of rubble that his self-destruction had made of the walls which had for thousands upon thousands of years contained him. His lips curved into a grimace or a grin that stemmed either from the victory against what had been an unconquerable enemy, an unchallengable fact of life, for him for such a long time, or simply from the throbbing pain and burning ache from his grim injuries which flared up with each step he took, no matter how short or careful. It wasn't a surprise there was no familiar, friendly face out here to wait for his resurrection. He did not know many friendly faces in the first place, and the ones he did were caught up in their own destinies, hardly in positions to sit and wait by the side of what they assumed was a corpse. Gadreel hadn't expected to be turned, examined; even if such a miracle had occurred (why would it? He was nothing) he wouldn't have assumed anyone would notice the damage control he'd etched into his skin. The scabbed and partially bleeding, now triggered and ruined, sigil on his chest was unfinished, altered, but by no means to spare his life. It had been a moment of clarity crossing through a sequence of chaos and blindness; if he'd add that curve to the cross of the arrow, if he'd allow his whole grace to wipe out this cell that was all that he feared and had never been able to escape, he'd kill Castiel and Hannah both and render the act worthless, purposeless, counterproductive. He wasn't a young, rankless angel; the uncontrolled release of the energy within him would have taken down the whole corridor, maybe more. His grace burned with the echo of eternity and it was him who'd once stood by the gates of Eden itself, able to defy an archangel's order should such fall upon him and should he judge it an order to refuse. (Of course, he had not done so when the time had come. Even after all this time, he alone understood the mistake he'd made. It wasn't out of malice - he'd believed he was serving the very purpose he'd sworn himself to when he'd let the serpent in. The young Lightbringer had a way with words and a keen sight into another's spirit and will, and as much as it shamed Gadreel to admit, Lucifer had had little trouble sauntering past his seemingly unfaltering defenses.)

As an unfortunate side-effect of sparing the angels Gadreel had never intended to harm, here _he_ was now just the same, life clinging to a shredded core that couldn't even reach out to the grand web of celestial energy while existing within that pattern itself. A pitiful state to be in, but he'd accepted worse and now that his fingertips slid across the broken gate, feet bringing him to the side where the air was less thick with fine dust from the rubble, he felt a flicker of relief take the place of loneliness and defeat. It was quickly followed by a resolution; a plan was beginning to take shape in his mind, a plan to exit this place where he would most certainly still be hunted and, truly, in which he would never submit to imprisonment for any reason again even if it meant that he would never be able to return. There was no telling how much forgiveness his brothers and sisters had in their hearts for him no matter the atoning he did, and he'd not stay here to find out - in time they'd come to a conclusion, one way or the other, but in the meantime he could better serve his purpose somewhere else, in some place the wind could catch onto the skeletal remains of his wings and bring with it the energies of God's greatest creation, the very thing Gadreel had been made to protect. And he'd wait, alone or in company, for the judgement to pass; somehow, whether or not he'd one day be accepted as a brother to the rest again now didn't seem to matter. Gadreel knew himself well enough to understand that the longing wasn't gone, merely momentarily banished, but it felt good to have such a clarity with him now that he made his way, limping and broken, towards the hopefully deserted pathway back to earth.  
If it would last him until he'd disappeared, he'd take it for a blessing.

 

* * *

 

Zipping up the hoodie covered the obvious damage from prying, curious eyes. There was no one at the playground, but Gadreel couldn't afford rest; he limped across it and onto the road, along which he continued towards no destination in particular. His car wasn't here, to Castiel's he had no keys, and even if he'd had a vehicle, he was in no condition to drive. In a while he simply gave up and settled on a bus stop to rest - the shelter smelled of old wet cigarettes and the air was thick with bitter smoke that felt restricting and dull in his lungs as he tried to catch his breath. The pain had formed a thin layer of sweat upon him, and the day's dying heat did nothing to help. As long as he'd have nowhere to head, no place to stay, he'd grow weaker still.

Out on a whim he turned, carefully and slowly, to check the timetables covered by a dirty battered glass. His eyes ran down the numbers trying to make sense of them - perhaps one of the cars would drive past the bunker. Perhaps he was still welcome there.  
At the very least it was worth the try: he could afford a motel room but a motel room offered none of the protection the bunker of Men of Letters did, and protection was something that he once more needed perhaps more than anything. Information was another thing that he yearned for, and which would be accessible, hopefully at least, at that particular destination.  
With no access to the angel radio Gadreel had no idea whether the plan had succeeded, and it was only now with the sun scorching his pale and sickly features that he realised he'd forgotten about it entirely. That he hadn't just exited an unconnected traumatic experience to be reborn as a creature of unknown associations and a reputation hanging in the balance, but a chapter in someone else's story into which many more were woven alongside him.  
As he waited for the sight of a bus (any would do for starters) he continuously tried to reach out to the ringing and screeching and odd cut-off chatter like an AM radio station picking up a bad signal from across the globe, but none of it made him any wiser. Now it was no longer just his own fate that concerned him - after all, here he was relatively safe as no one's priority on a stretch of road that held no connection to him and from which he would hardly be sought even if someone would be searching for him - but that of many others as well. Metatron had been spinning such a grand plot against so many that there were multiple aspects to worry about: the Winchesters, oddly enough, were the first that Gadreel thought of. Perhaps it was due to the association of the bunker to them and their part as mere humans in the war of angels, or because he'd never known family like he'd felt he could almost experience through them, but he cared for them and worried for them now, and none of it had anything to do with the bunker. He knew he could access the place whether or not the true inhabitants still lived and breathed, and it would offer him protection just the same. He didn't need the Winchesters to survive as long as he had their sturdy stone walls standing untouched around him. It wasn't necessity that made him long for them; it was something else, and it hurt almost as much as the physical injuries that never quite forgot to make themselves known to him.  
Next he thought, with growing hollowness at his core, of Castiel. Castiel had disappeared and the only thing Gadreel had thought about was that _he_ had been disappointed; disappointed that the warrior had not stayed by his side in the cell which Gadreel had blown to dust solely to pave him the way out. It was ironic, and he hated himself for it, but at the end of the day, Castiel was the only brother he had. Perhaps it was only logical he'd long for his company first and foremost and pick up the remaining story when the full picture began clearing out for him. They'd marched to a war that had not been won with Gadreel's sacrifice; he'd played his part as well as he could, but the hardest role had still been placed upon the younger angel's shoulders.  
A nausea that had nothing to do with his weakened state washed over Gadreel and left him cold and his legs trembling. There was chewed gum stuck on the bench next to him, and the pale pink colour of it made him think of raw fat, an unwelcome association that by no means offered any solace to the discomfort that gnawed him from the inside out.

The severed connections buzzed along with the gentle breeze that shook the trees growing on both sides of the road, and the first group of cars passed by with their wheels digging into the hot asphalt underneath.

 

* * *

 

The interior of the bus smelled of burnt dust - a scent that Gadreel had grown fond of, that he associated with travel, the only time he'd had to live for himself in the past months. When he was headed somewhere, he could do nothing about anything: it was like being chained to freedom itself, a paradox that he throughoutly enjoyed. So was the smell of the leather of his wallet; as soon as he'd found an appropriate amount of money to pay for the ride, the driver's apparent dislike for his less than presentable self seemed to decrease. As Gadreel pushed past the first rows of people - a group of elderly women that all steered a little further from the corridor between the seats to avoid contact to the sickly stranger - he realised he'd grown numb to the prejudice and hatred for himself, and that for once knowing it was because they mistook his weakness and lack of precise coordination for drunkenness or an even worse alternative felt a relief. At least this wasn't about _him_ , it was a natural, impersonal distaste for weakness. As he settled in a seat as far back as he could reach without fearing his legs would give in, he took refuge in the thought of how they'd think different if they knew: if they knew, first and foremost, that he was _injured_ , not high, or that he was an angel and not a man at all, and how this knowledge would change the way they reacted to him. He leaned his head against the frame of the window and closed his eyes, allowing that scenario to replace truth for a while - he had trouble imagining proper kindness after receiving so little in his time, but what he could he did and the rest was flashes of comfort that he accepted the way they came to him.  
He knew he deserved none of it: he was the reason these people had all had to suffer in their lives. There was no escaping that. But now that he'd once more paid for this crime and the ones he'd committed since, the shadow of hope was perhaps granted even to him – the hope that amongst these people, these sixteen or so that sat around him, would be one who'd know him and forgive him; someone whose compassion was bright enough to cast aside the disgust at his weakness and failures, and for them to take what he had to offer instead, even if it was nothing but good intentions.

When he next opened his eyes, some time appeared to have passed. The road had taken them from the urban area back amongst the fields, the usual flat Kansas scenery, and some new people had appeared amongst the passengers though few had dropped off. Amongst these newcomers was a young couple: a girl with her dark hair pinned back, wearing all black and white in a rough unusual fashion, and a shy-looking male with conventional clothes with his arm around her shoulders and fingers sliding lazily along the screen of a music player. They both wore an earplug, sharing the tunes the player would play, and the girl's foot rubbed against the boy's shin in a slow manner as if to caress him with her shoeless toes.  
Their auras burned bright and confident and had merged from the middle, one blurring into the other to show the strong connection between them, and as Gadreel turned to look out of the window again he wondered what it felt like to be accepted so completely by someone that one's very essence flooded into them and theirs right back in turn. He'd never experienced anything like that and, as far as he could imagine, would never do in future either: he'd cared, but he'd never been complete or strong enough to trust another that far. Whenever he'd slipped past the conventional, it had done nothing but destroyed him and others; at other times, that trust had been forced out of him so that he was the only one open and vulnerable with no choice but to obey whichever command would come next in order to preserve himself in spite of the gaping hole that had been carved into him. All around him this whole time had been others who'd willingly sunken into one another in this manner, however, and in his eyes it had been more plain than he assumed these individuals would have liked: he could tell true trust apart from reservation and had learned that each was not always so, that at times one or both would close away and then open up again to let the other in once more. It seemed a healthy variation, a natural course; sometimes, both were open. Sometimes only the other was. But the difference to what he'd experienced was that it almost always based on willing reaching of the soul towards another - there were few that desperately wrapped themselves around souls that would not open for them, or those that had been broken open for another's entry. It wasn't unheard of but it was rare, where Gadreel's own experience was the exact opposite: that true trust was rare and fragile, but people were different from him. They were immediate and radical where he was slow and calculative, used to existing over centuries rather than minutes. A day to him was a blink of an eye, even the most stressful one, even one of these more recent ones that had shaken the whole of him - a day to a human was a splinter of eternity itself, a precious span of time that changed them and the world around them there and then, shaping their existence whether they wanted it or not. It was something they existed in, where Gadreel felt like he was rather watching from the side of the field as creation moved along on its own. Maybe things that belonged to other sensing beings were not for him for this reason alone: he was not a part of the world where they happened, as simple as that.

Of course, he did experience love. Not this kind of love: not the immediate, consuming and driving force that merged human souls and made them shine like beacons amongst dimmed paper lanterns. Obviously, he loved these beings he observed, the ones he'd promised he'd protect, and all they stood for. He loved all of them from their strengths to their weaknesses and the quirks that settled inbetween. Some he loved more personally, even if he wasn't in full truth welcome to do so, as had always been the case with the Winchesters; he loved the younger, Sam, quite fiercely and devotedly, as Sam was someone he'd sworn to protect above all else, as well as a being he'd in turn completely depended upon. He'd seen Sam like no other living thing in the world had seen him, and he'd grown to appreciate everything about him, but more than perhaps anything else his affection had been won over by the unquestioning forgiveness that resided within the man as a defining characteristic. It seemed to him that Sam had had compassion to spare even for him, as Sam alone had taken the worst of his good intentions gone awry and still chosen to stand by his side like he was an equal when he'd begged for forgiveness and a second chance to join his strength with their cause. Whether it had been desperation driving him into places he'd rather not have ended up in or a glimpse of something much deeper than that, Gadreel couldn't know. All he knew was that the forgiveness of Sam's had mattered to him more than anything in the past months - years - centuries, millenias even. The further he thought the less certain he grew if it wasn't indeed the most miraculous thing that he'd ever been graced with. In retrospect, it was no surprise that he felt as if completely sworn to this one man in particular. It was Dean he'd given his word to, but Dean had never honoured his end when the bond had been tested: perhaps better that way. It had allowed Gadreel to see the fault in his own prideful assumption that he was _helping_ Sam when in truth, he'd never been. It wasn't truly helping if the cost of it was taking full control of someone's actions and denying them the freedom of choice over themselves down to the very most fundamental of all rights granted to a living being by nature, the right to live or die, and it had been Gadreel's pride and nothing more that had made him assume he would not abuse the power he'd granted himself over Sam. He didn't deserve forgiveness from either of the brothers, but he'd gotten it from the very one to whom he owed the most and from whom he would have never asked it from. Dean, it seemed, had taken the blame from himself and placed it upon Gadreel to keep breathing, and Gadreel understood it; perhaps that was a fitting price to pay for the other end that had unexpectedly granted him salvation instead of twisting a blade inside him as would have been more appropriate. Still, he loved Dean all the same - he'd never ceased trying to fight for the man's approval and friendship, even when it had become clear that it was something he'd never be granted.  
It was a troubled sort of affection that had no place in the relationship that they shared; a broken, aching wound in the middle of a shell that should have been strong and protected him. He had no idea if Dean felt anything similar for him, or if his wound was just the guilt he felt over what he'd done to Sam with Gadreel's help, but if there was one thing that had been plain as day to Gadreel from the very moment he'd been captured and tortured by Dean, it was the fact that he'd left a wound indeed, even if he'd never learn which injury it stemmed from.  
The fact that twisted his already abused core was that in combination with his other mistakes and the blood of the innocent that stained his hands and, worse yet, Sam's hands as well because of him - the blood which he could never pay back no matter what choices he'd make in the future - the wound which he'd opened into Dean Winchester was much, much deeper than the ones the man had stricken into him during the late hours he'd pretended to be interrogating him in that abandoned rusty cave of a building.

With a slip of his finger over the red button in the ceiling, the bus started slowing down; the night in Lebanon, Kansas greeted Gadreel with a wetness and a faded smell of sulfur and ash in the air. It was not a good omen.

 

* * *

 

He'd not remembered the stairs down to the study hall were so steep and so close to one another. With one hand gently pressing against the lowest point of the aching collection of wounds over his chest and the other gripping the metal for support Gadreel slowly made his way down, step by step and each feeling more hopeless even though he'd rested on the way there, like his legs wouldn't hold his weight for a minute more.  
From the other end of the hall the echoes of another set of steps reached him; he knew them to be Sam's by the weight and rhythm, and by the sounds of them he wasn't entirely sober.  
The taller man stopped by the entrance to the hall and Gadreel by the end of the stairs, and they both watched one another, Sam's face blank and Gadreel's apologetic, for a good while. Then, finally, Sam's posture collapsed and he took a few steps forwards, shaking his head as if to reorganize his thoughts.

"Gadreel," he named his target, "Where's Castiel?"

"I do not know."  
Gadreel's palm slipped over the metal behind him and he stumbled a step backwards. Sam noticed it and immediately slowed down - once again he readjusted his understanding of the situation before picking up his pace and moving to Gadreel. To the older's surprise he brought his arm under his and dragged him on without a word before they'd reached the table and Sam pushed him down on a chair. Once he was sitting, head swimming with the effort it had taken to reach this far, Sam dropped into a crouched pose and examined him with a worried expression.

"Is he alive?"

Slowly, Gadreel nodded in response.  
"I think so," he replied, sorry that he could not provide a more satisfying response, "Metatron expected us - he'd set up a trap. I got Castiel out, but I could not follow him myself, as I was - injured."  
His hand slid unwillingly away from his chest, heart pounding against the mauled bones as his mind anticipated the younger's reaction and his assumptions at the sight of the sigil he would recognise from before. Sam's eyes flickered towards him before he allowed himself to reach for the older's clothes, undoing the zipper that Gadreel had struggled to pull up hours earlier.

"Goddamnit," the younger breathed, "Goddamnit. I - found Dean; he didn't... he didn't... make it."

Gadreel's head jerked up and his eyes focused upon the younger's expression: Sam was avoiding his gaze and the pain in him radiated like the smell of alcohol from him. Suddenly the younger hissed, and after a moment's brief confusion Gadreel realised it was because he'd discovered the sigil on him. As if Dean had suddenly slipped off of Sam's mind - most likely for the first time since he'd 'found' him, whatever that meant - the hunter now looked up at Gadreel again and there was no mistaking the suspicion and doubt behind the gold and green that the yellow lights in the hall brought out clearly.  
A little insulted, Gadreel felt like snarling at him, but instead he heard himself word out a defensive response to the accusation that had not been spoken out loud.

"I did not betray him. This was the only way to make sure one of us made it to the tablet. I did what I could."

Sam didn't respond; instead, he was still staring into Gadreel's eyes and Gadreel, as much as he would have liked to, didn't look away. He'd had a lot of training in this: the eye contact was a measure of honesty and looking away meant that he could not stand by his words. Torture had taught him that insisting meant punishment and as such even now he felt adrenaline flood into him to prepare him for the pain that never came, and instead Sam's gaze softened and the drunkenness returned to it to dull the focus, and he sighed as he finally parted the older's hoodie in full.

"I guess I'll just have to take your word on it," he grunted in a tone of dissatisfaction, "but until we hear from Cas I can't trust you."

"I understand that. All I ask is that you give me the benefit of doubt."

"Granted."  
The younger shifted and stood up, hand gripping the table for balance.  
"Hang on, we need to patch you up. I'll get the necessities."

"Sam -"

"If it's about my brother, don't."

Gadreel watched Sam leave the room and wondered why exactly the subject felt like he hadn't heard the whole of it yet.

 

* * *

 

"Face the chair away from the table - yeah - and lean your elbows behind you so that I have a clear view of the wound. Okay. Yeah, that's good. Now just sit still and don't move, it's probably gonna sting quite a bit."

And it did sting, but Gadreel was used to as much. It stung even if nobody was wiping the cuts clean with an alcohol-stained cloth, but truth was that the matter was not exactly helped by the addition. It wasn't the pain that caused him trouble but rather the weakness of his body and the grace within. The ringing in his ears had escalated to a point where he was quite certain the most of it was the vessel's inner ear making noise on its own to announce, as if he'd been unaware of it so far, that he was running out of consciousness. His vision was affected, too - everything seemed a little blurry and the lights were all either too bright or oddly dimmed from view like there'd been smoke lingering around them.  
But Sam was gentle; his strokes weren't rough like Dean's often were, and rather than sliding the cloth along or near the wounds he patted the area softly and slowly with it, carefully avoiding pressure where he could and when there was a spot that required extra care, he made sure to lighten the touch even more for the repetition to feel less torturous. He barely ever lifted his eyes from the angel's chest, but Gadreel could feel his mind working, and he wished his words would've had some merit on their own so that he could have explained to the hunter what had happened in Heaven, but truth was that he couldn't recall most of it unprompted and even less now that the exhaustion was taking its toll on him.  
To his relief, eventually Sam started asking questions. He'd dragged his own chair in front of Gadreel's to stay on level with him and had leaned forwards for better precision with his work, and he still addressed the sigil rather than Gadreel when he spoke, but it was a good sign that he wanted to hear the story in the first place.

"So you wanna explain this?" he asked through gritted teeth, "'Metatron's trap' is a little vague."

"I brought Castiel into his office without trouble," Gadreel spoke, eyes closing to take him back to the moment even though it was the last place he wanted to be, "but Metatron had foreseen it somehow. The office was a disguise - instead I'd led us into the prison. Hannah was there to guard us, Castiel in his own cell and I in - the transformation had caused parts of the walls to break. I used a sharp stone to carve the sigil, and told - told them to shelter themselves."

"Both?"

"Both. I do not wish a single more angel dead because of me, Sam. That is not who I am."

Their eyes met for a brief moment before Sam leaned back, dropped the blood-stained cloth onto the floor next to the box of first-aid equipment, and dug out bandages instead.

"And you didn't die because -"

"The sigil is imperfect."

"That's gotta hurt."

"I did not consider myself a priority. I did not care if I would live. The sole thing that mattered was that we would reach the tablet in time. Which... I do not know if we did."

Sam shrugged.  
"Turn," he said instead of commenting, "face the table and put your elbows back on it."  
He waited patiently as the angel did as commanded, stiff as his movements were; then, once he'd adjusted to the desired position, the hunter brought the bandage around his chest for the first time so that it tied around him firmly but not tightly. The pressure grew the more layers of it were added, but it didn't restrict the older's breathing nor did it hurt the bones in the least, and they were sore from the blast still.

In the following silence Gadreel suddenly sensed a mood of defeat and, oddly enough, resigned openness. It seemed that Sam had decided to trust him, perhaps because he had no reason to question the story or just because he hoped for the best in the face of too many hardships, and something of an affection had seeped into the way he was finishing up with the older's injuries. For a moment the angel's mind returned to the forms of love he'd thought of before and he wondered if this could count as an experience - there was certainly something between them that wasn't mere uneasy alliance, and the way in which Sam cared for him felt at once like a desperate attempt to heal _something_ in place of the things he could not as well as like an expression of almost a familial concern for the older, like suddenly he'd become a part of something that he'd before not been allowed into. Finally, with a feel of a clip digging into the bandages near the older's right shoulder blade, Sam relaxed his hands and slid them down the angel's now bare back until their reach ended and his fingertips lifted. With a sigh the younger leaned over to pick up the box and the bloody rag and he stood up, stopping suddenly by the table's side mid-way through a motion that Gadreel had expected to turn naturally into walking. In a moment's time he heard it as well: footsteps in the stairway.

"It's Cas."  
Sam's voice seemed relieved and saddened at once. He dropped his carryings and crossed the hall, and Gadreel wished he could have done the same: instead, he sat there more dizzy than ever and watched them hug one another tight and exchange words that he could not hear.  
He almost managed to sense the return of that selfish part of him that always desired inclusion no matter how unwelcome the jealousy was when Castiel seemed to suddenly grow aware of his presence, dropped his arms from around Sam and walked directly to Gadreel instead. He examined the older with lips parting with disbelief and a shock radiated from his features - and then he swooped down like a bird of prey to hug him just the same.

"Never do that again," the seraph's choked voice carried roughly into Gadreel's ear.  
"I can't stand losing any more of my family."

 


End file.
